


A Broken Promise

by dilemmaed



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew Minyard Has Feelings, Andrew Minyard Loves Neil Josten, Canon Compliant, Established Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Exy (All For The Game), Hurt Neil Josten, M/M, Neil Josten Is an Idiot, POV Neil Josten, Post-Canon, Post-The King's Men, Professional Exy (All For The Game), Professional Exy Player Andrew Minyard, Professional Exy Player Neil Josten, Protective Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:08:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25704124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilemmaed/pseuds/dilemmaed
Summary: “I keep my promises,” Andrew said, “if you kept yours, we wouldn’t be having this little problem.”For a moment, the coach was silent and Neil thought that Andrew might let go.Then, “h-he said he was fine to play.”Andrew barked out an incredulous laugh, “and you believed him?”The coach gaped as Andrew’s hand tightened in his shirt. Neil could hear Andrew’s sick smile in the tone of his voice, reminding him too much of the time Andrew had spent on anti-psychotics, of Andrew’s thin laughter and his manic grin, “then you’re an even bigger idiot than he is,” he said.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 20
Kudos: 414





	A Broken Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!
> 
> So, if it's any surprise at all, I'm back with more Andreil! I just love these two so damn much and I can't get them out of my head no matter how hard I try!
> 
> On that note, please give me prompts and suggestions for them!
> 
> This very short one shot (short for me at least) is my take on Nora's extra content, in which she states that Andrew once punched their coach for putting an injured Neil on the court. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy:)

“You are,” Andrew spat, “perhaps the fucking stupidest man alive.”

Andrew grabbed Neil by the arm and yanked him closer, rough enough for Neil to get a sense of just how  _ angry _ the other man was, if it wasn’t already apparent by the fire swirling in his hazel eyes.

“Andrew,” Neil said quietly, a hand on the spot that Andrew’s shoulder pad met his neck, thumb brushing the skin there, “I’m fine.”

Andrew predictably ignored this, his grip on Neil’s arm a heavy weight as they jogged to the court wall. The look Andrew shot him was murder and for a fleeting moment, Neil wondered if Andrew had his knives on him.

“304%,” Andrew growled through clenched teeth, the muscle in his jaw jumping.

It had been a long time since Neil had seen Andrew so worked up. The last time, Andrew had ended up with a five game suspension and a broken thumb, but then again, Neil should have known better.

His teammates were crowding around, yelling things, telling Andrew to “get back in the fucking goal”. Neil knew Andrew well enough to know that there would be no stopping him. But Andrew ignored this, ignored everything as he ripped off his helmet with his free hand, throwing it on the floor. Neil was only glad he’d left his massive racquet back at the goal. He’d seen one man murdered by an Exy racquet in his lifetime and that was enough. 

Neil hadn’t been on the roster tonight, had been on the injured list, but he’d changed out–just in case. Their team had been down five points with ten minutes left in the second half with no hope other than Neil, their top scorer. When his coach had asked, he’d agreed to play, knowing that he might end up worse for wear once the game was over. But the moment Andrew had seen him come through the door, the blond had started running. Now, Neil knew exactly where he was headed, knew what was going to happen, but very few men stopped Andrew from doing something he wanted to and survived. Perhaps Neil was the only one.

Not far from the court wall, Andrew released Neil’s arm, abruptly enough that the other man stumbled, almost falling on the ground.

“Fuck, Andrew,” Neil hissed as he righted himself, wincing. His hand found his flank, brushing under his jersey to check if his stitches had torn–they hadn’t. 

“You stupid, fucking  _ idiot _ ,” Andrew muttered, crossing the short distance to where their coach–a former Raven back in his college days–stood, holding his clipboard, chattering something to himself as he tapped his pen.

He only looked up, only noticed that something was wrong by the time Andrew was a few feet away. His eyes widened in alarm and irritation as he noticed that the game was, in fact, not in play, and that his goalkeeper was bounding towards him like a predator going in for the kill.

Neil was about to open his mouth as his coach spoke, “MINYARD,” his voice boomed, “get back in the  _ fuck– _ ”

Andrew’s fist collided with the coach’s face then with a sickening crack, hard enough to send the taller man sprawling. As he hit the court floor, Neil was running, trying to get to Andrew before he did something else, before blood was drawn on national television, before he got himself thrown off the team.

Neil put a hand back in an attempt to keep their teammates away from the scene, hoping that for once in their lives, they might listen. He hoped they weren’t self destructive enough to try and stop Andrew from doing something like this. 

Their coach had a hand pressed to his jaw, holding it there as if it might fall off if he let go. There was rage in his eyes–and a hint of fear. His other hand was clenched in a fist at his side, shaking.

Everyone in the stadium seemed to be staring at the pint-sized goalkeeper who’d taken down his six foot tall coach with a single punch. There was a certain amount of fear that surrounded Andrew’s name when most heard it. The reporters still talked about it, talked about him, of what may or may not have happened in that car with his mother, of what might have happened if the cops hadn’t pulled Andrew off of those men who’d harassed Nicky outside of Eden’s Twilight. Homicidal, psychotic, sociopathic–the words had been tossed around for years and when they were slurred at him, Andrew barely blinked. Few understood Andrew’s moral code, but Neil knew better than most that Andrew never never lashed out without reason.

“Andrew,” Neil said more forcefully, but it was as if the other man didn’t hear him, or at least chose not to. 

Neil moved closer, and was about to place a hand on Andrew’s shoulder when the blond knelt down, knotting a rough hand into the coach’s polo shirt. 

Neil didn’t move, unsure of what Andrew’s next move would be.

Andrew pulled the man close, their faces bare inches apart before speaking, his voice even, each word as sharp as one of his knives.

“I keep my promises,” Andrew said, “if you kept yours, we wouldn’t be having this little problem.”

For a moment, the coach was silent and Neil thought that Andrew might let go.

Then, “h-he said he was fine to play.”

Andrew barked out an incredulous laugh, “and you believed him?”

The coach gaped as Andrew’s hand tightened in his shirt. Neil could hear Andrew’s sick smile in the tone of his voice, reminding him too much of the time Andrew had spent on anti-psychotics, of Andrew’s thin laughter and his manic grin, “then you’re an even bigger idiot than he is,” he said, gesturing back to where Neil stood behind him.

Andrew drew his other hand back for another punch, but before he could swing, Neil was there, a hand on Andrew’s forearm, not tight, but enough to throw him.

Andrew paused then, his entire posture rigid at the feeling of Neil’s hand on him. Neil took the opportunity to kneel down behind Andrew, not moving his hand.

“Andrew,” Neil said, his voice even, calm.

He hovered his other hand, bringing it to ghost Andrew’s jaw. When Andrew didn’t flinch away, Neil seized his chin in his grip and turned Andrew’s face to look at him. 

Andrew’s eyes were glimmering with rage, but something in him softened as he looked at Neil’s face. Neil didn’t let go, didn’t do anything but let Andrew look his fill. To most, Andrew's expression would seem unreadable, but Neil could feel the vulnerability hiding there, even now–his innate need to protect Neil at all costs.

“I’m okay,” he said, “I’m okay, Andrew.”

Yes, Neil was injured from the game three nights ago. And yes, he had stitches down his flank, had a sprained wrist and heavily bruised ribs, but he was okay.

“You’re so fucking stupid, Josten,” Andrew breathed, his eyes settled on Neil’s scarred cheekbone.

“I thought we knew this already,” Neil replied, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against the line of Andrew’s jaw. 

“305%,” Andrew said absently, but a second later, his arm went slack in Neil’s grip.

Neil took Andrew’s hand and shoved it under his jersey, to the covered stitches that lie there, “I’m okay.” 

For a moment, there was nothing else but them, not the screaming fans, not the coach, their teammates, or the agitated refs. It seemed as if there were only them and the sound of their breath. Andrew was still breathing heavily, his breath rising and falling rapidly, whereas Neil’s was careful, so as to avoid the pain that resided in his ribs. 

The movement of Andrew’s hand on his stomach, hand splayed, reminded Neil of the moment, years ago, when Andrew had asked Neil for a reason to trust him in the kitchen of Andrew’s house in Columbia. Neil had given Andrew a truth, had allowed him to feel the depth of the scars on his stomach, if only for a moment. Now, he needed Andrew to trust him, was asking it of him once again. He had given Andrew all of him; they no longer had secrets to trade in, but  _ this _ –this thing, this  _ touch– _ Neil would give him. He only hoped Andrew would take it.

Neil felt a hand on his shoulder, a light touch against his pads. 

“We gotta start the play again, Neil,” the voice of his captain called, dropping the hand he had on his shoulder suddenly, presumably due to Andrew’s unnerving stare. Neil felt the other man drop back, but knew that he still lingered, waiting for a response.

Neil simply nodded, refusing to break his eye contact with Andrew.

“Andrew?” Neil asked quietly, swallowing hard.

“I hate you,” Andrew said, releasing their coach from his grip, roughly enough that the man stumbled back on his heels.

Andrew looked back to Neil, set his jaw, “To the bench, junkie,” he said.

Neil wanted to protest, to argue, but before he could Andrew continued, “Say you’re fine and I’ll punch you too. For once in your miserable life just shut the fuck up and do what you’re told, Josten.”

“Fuck you,” Neil swore, releasing his grip on Andrew’s wrist, letting his hand fall to his side. 

The blond’s other hand slid back from under Neil’s jersey as he made to stand watching the redhead with bored eyes as Neil worked his way to a standing position with a wince, his free hand clutching at his ribs.

“I-if we lose,” Neil said, taunting, “it’s on you.”

“You know I really don’t give a fuck,” Andrew replied, an eyebrow raised.

Neil snorted, “To the goal, Minyard.”

Sparing one more glare to their coach, who was once again on his feet, Andrew lifted two fingers to his temple in a mock salute and jogged back to his post without another word.

Neil ducked back through the court door, situating himself so he had the best angle to watch the game, ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest at the prospect of not being out there with his team, of having to watch them lose. No matter how good a goalkeeper Andrew was, they’d never–their offense line was in shambles without Neil. He would take the loss personally–he always did. Andrew would bitch later tonight that he was an idiot and a junkie–for both his actions and his overreaction to the loss, but he’d check Neil’s stitches all the same, would lace his fingers through Neil’s as they lie on the couch together, half asleep.

“What the fuck, Josten,” his coach’s voice rung out a few minutes later.

“Hmm?” Neil asked, watching as Andrew slammed his racquet to the ground, blocking an impossible shot from the opposing team’s striker.

“How’d you get him to stop?” He asked.

Neil turned his head to see his coach just as the whistle blew. The man was holding an ice pack to his jaw now, standing up against the court wall as he watched the game. Judging by how hard Andrew had hit him, he’d say the coach would probably have a bruise for a while, the purple color of it already blooming against his cheek.

Glancing back to Andrew, who was now just standing at the goal, flexing his fingers carelessly on his racquet, Neil shrugged. 

Andrew didn’t often do what people told him to do, but often that was the problem. 

They  _ told _ him.

Andrew had spent too much of his life without choice, without the option of saying yes or no. His life had been taken from him without choice, his innocence. Now, that choice meant everything to him. To demand something of Andrew was to deprive him of something sacred, of the privilege most people didn’t think twice about. He'd always extended that choice to Neil, made a point to. The least Neil could do after all that had been done to Andrew was extend him the same, to give him what he should have been allowed his whole life.

Andrew’s long ago words echoed in Neil’s ears as he sat there.

‘ _I won’t be like them._ _I won’t let you let me be,’_ he’d said.

It had been years since Neil had first been asked this question, but his answer was the same.

“I asked,” he replied.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story and please, please don't hesitate to leave comments or Kudos; I love hearing feedback from my readers!
> 
> Feel free to follow me on tumblr for writing updates, etc at dilemma-ed!
> 
> If you enjoyed this story, go check out my other works, including five more All For The Game one shots, a Thomas x Alastair one shot and some Dramione works!
> 
> As I said, If you want to see me write more Andreil (which I'm always open to!), then definitely leave me some prompts or suggestions for these two idiots!
> 
> I have a few ideas brewing for one shots, so be on the lookout for more from me soon enough!
> 
> Until next time,  
> Em :)


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